And yet, he can’t dance to save his life.
It’s kind of sweet, actually.
A bartender in a black Buck Wild T-shirt wipes down the bar in front of us. “What can I get you?” he asks, slapping down two napkins.
“I’ll take an IPA and a shot of whiskey.” Miles winks at me. “I need something hard to take the sting off my humiliation.”
I laugh and double the order.
The bartender pours the whiskey first, and when he slides two shot glasses filled with amber liquid across the bar, Miles immediately grabs them and offers one to me.
“To never doing that again,” he says, lifting his glass.
“For the record, I’m only toasting in solidarity.”
I slam the whiskey back. It burns like hell going down, but it’s a welcome feeling.
A reminder that I’m alive and healthy and finally living my life on my own terms.
That I’m putting myself first.
“I took some pics for your social accounts,” Miles says, offering me his phone. “You looked great out there, by the way.”
I clap a hand to my forehead. “I was having so much fun, I completely forgot to take pictures.”
Some influencer I am.
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’ve got your back.” He smirks. “Even if you threaten me with liquefied meat at every turn.”
I scroll through the pics and forward the best shots to myself before handing the phone back.
“You’re hardly a prisoner.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “I’ve been saying it from day one. You’re free to go at any time.”
He feigns affront. “And lose out on seeing your shining face back at Triada? I don’t think so.”
The reminder of our bet is a mood killer. What happens when we get to Santa Monica tomorrow? How will we decide who won the bet, and will Miles just hop a flight back to Austin? We haven’t talked about the end of the road, both of us carefully avoiding the subject.
With good reason.
The bartender arrives with our beers, and I shove all thoughts of the future from my mind. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. I’m not going to spend our last night together being a sad sack.
“Menus?” the bartender asks.
I turn to Miles. “Should we order food?”
“That depends,” he says, resting his forearms on the edge of the bar.
“On what?”
“On whether you plan to stay and dance.”
I laugh. “Why do you think I took lessons?”
“Then we’d better eat something, or that whiskey will go straight to your head.”
“Give me some credit.” I nudge him, because apparently, I can’t stop touching him tonight.Might as well do it while you still can. “I’m not a total lightweight.”
The corners of his mouth twitch. “That’s not a boast I’m willing to test.”
